


Have Violent Ends

by KingGhidorah



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood Play, Breeding Kink, Cum Play, Daddy Kink, Din Djarin's Helmet Stays on During Sex, Drinking, F/M, Face Slapping, Facials, Gags, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Mentions of suicide(brief), Mild Painplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, No use of y/n, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader is AFAB but otherwise ambiguous, Self-Hatred, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships, only slightly though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingGhidorah/pseuds/KingGhidorah
Summary: Part 2 of 'These Violent Delights' is here! And it's a long one!There's a lot of angst in this one, y'all, so if that ain't your bag, I'd recommend you pass.You wake up the morning after the events of Part 1, memory a bit spotty, and anxiety settled into your bones. You aren't sure the true nature of your relationship with Boba Fett; which leads you two, plus one Fennec Shand, to drink spotchka at dawn like that's a totally normal thing to do. An unexpected guest from the previous day's heist makes an appearance and(more or less) helps you figure some things out.AKA- Boba Fett read you like a book from the moment you walked into his Palace, so honestly, what did you expect?
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader, Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Reader, Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	Have Violent Ends

have violent ends 

  
  
  


You thought you’d made them up inside your head. But the mornings come now, unhindered. Twin suns ascend, rousing you from the dead, and bathing the black Dune Sea in sticky orange. Your mouth is uncomfortably dry, tongue two sizes too big from dehydration, and you don’t exactly remember how you’ve come to be in a bed. The last image, vibrant in your brain, is that of the quivering moisture farmer pleading her case with what little she had to offer in trade. 

The sheets are thin and cheaply made, but not unpleasant, scratching slightly against your skin as you sit up. You groan as a dull pain shoots through your skull. Where the Mand’alor had cracked it against the duracrete pulses hot with phantom trauma. The bacta can only do so much, your ears recalling the wet popping sound well. 

The morning is unkind to you.

You’re alone, room small and bare in the early dawn light, with only the bed and a desk occupying the space. There’s a fresh pair of linens on the aforementioned desk, along with a note in scribbly Basic. 

**_take a left, descend the stairs, take a right_ **

_ Oh, kriff, that’s right.  _ Fett had torn your only articles of clothing to spindly shreds, leaving you bare as the day you’d entered this world. 

It’s still the fresh hours of sunrise, but the dry heat of Tatooine is already bleeding it’s way into the palace(air of even the most subterranean portions becoming arid) and your skin starts prickling with sweat. The leggings stick to your damp frame, clinging slightly to reveal more than you’d like. Flowing tunics, paired with a fine beige harem pant, had always been your choice of attire when not actively looking to be looked at; life was easier without a constant wandering eye attempting to perceive you. 

The linen top that's been provided (by the mysterious note writer) is thankfully long; flowing past the waistband of your leggings. Covering almost every inch of you, the soft material putting your worries of perception to rest. 

_ Half of Tatooine knows what you look like, now. Silly girl. _

You could hear Boba’s raspy voice in your head, teasing you. As he surely would, if he were here to witness how timid you were becoming. You had court the  _ Mand’alor  _ himself in death, yet you feared Fett's rejection above all else.  __

_ Silly girl. _

You pull on your boots, which are sitting by the door; right foot’s pinky toe poking through the extremely worn bantha leather. A heavy sigh escapes your lungs.

There are a million thoughts racing through your mind as you make your way down the stairs, taking your time, in no hurry to meet either chrome or matte Mandalorian. You couldn’t put a finger on why you’re awash with this unease, but you are. More so than when you were encrusted in the Devaronian’s blood. More so than when you spit on the Mand’alor’s beskar’gam face. 

Physical pain is an easy burden. Easy to determine where it started. Easy to fix. But emotional pain is a whole other animal. It’s often ambiguous, with no point of origin. It’s hard to name. Sometimes, impossible to mend. 

The only other time you’d felt this uneasy was when Fett died. But that strange sorrow had been buried for years now, and Boba Fett had since risen from the dead. 

Unearthing this  _ fear  _ with his resurrection.

You clutch your stomach as you make the right, throne room opening up before you from an arched entrance. It’s quite a different scene in the daytime. While the music of the night previous was an amalgamation of sensual synthetic beats and drums, this morning your ears are greeted with slow and melodic notes, barely audible. 

The woman(whom you still don’t have a name for) is tapping on a Communication's Pad while Fett stands beside her, speaking quietly. His helmet off, resting in his right arm.

Your breath catches, stuttering until you think you’re about to choke. His back is turned from you, but you can see his head, completely shaved- rough pattern of scars weaving like a road through the skin. _Maker._ You hadn’t awoken with the expectation of seeing him helmetless so soon, so _casually_. You’d thought of this moment every waking second for the past five years. You entertained a thousand different fantasies of how **_the reveal_** would be immortalized. But _this_? Something so forgettable as him simply turning to face you? 

It’s greater than you could have  _ ever  _ imagined.

“Good to see you’re still in one piece,” his voice is unmodulated, still gnarled like it went blow for blow with the sarlacc because fuck,  _ it did _ and it’s still so  _ fucking perfect _ . You’re gaping openly, like some idiot, you’re sure of it. Mouth hanging open like a Burra fish awaiting a hook. 

You can’t think of anything to say. Every word you’ve ever spoken cannot aptly describe him. You recognize the true absurdity of it, being rendered speechless by someone’s face; but it feels like you’ve been waiting to exhale since Boba Fett died, and someone’s suddenly knocked the wind out of you. 

“Great,” the woman slaps him lightly on the arm, “you’ve kriffing broke her.” His mouth moves up into, not quite a smile, but something close. Every small detail you’ve ever committed to memory begins adapting; reflecting him, here and now, exposed before you. No longer hidden. 

You wouldn't say Boba Fett is a conventionally handsome man; but, then again, he isn't conventional in most ways. He's been rendered not only scarred, but hairless from the sarlacc's digestive enzymes. One ear lobe is fused to the side of his head, in a nest of particularly gnarly scars which spider down his neck, meeting with the one's that curl around his face. To your surprise, Fett's eyes aren't harsh, but deep and dark brown as they pour into you. 

You still haven’t said a word, tongue much too fat in your mouth to speak. Absolutely nothing is more important than studying him at this moment. Tatooine could cave in around you, and it wouldn't matter. As long as you were here- spending your last moments alive with him.

When had you grown so  _ sentimental _ ? 

“You- you look…” Your voice comes out strangled; almost doesn’t come out at all, actually. Your brain is going about half the speed it was just a moment ago. All your uneasy feelings somehow evaporated. “You look…So  _ familiar _ .” It’s true, he did. You feel like you’ve known him your whole life.

Fett and the woman share a glance, “I’ve been told I resemble my father.” 

“That’s an understatement,” she quips in response. A few moments pass, and you think he thinks you’re going to speak again; elaborate on what you’d meant, but you can’t speak. There’s an uncomfortable silence until Fett steps towards you.

“This is Fennec Shand. Get used to her, if you plan on sticking around.” If you  _ planned _ ? That wasn’t what you’d hoped to hear from Fett; but what had you expected? A declaration of love? 

_ Silly girl _

Your eyes widen, whisking over to Shand's pretty face, “Fennec Shand? You? You're  _ the  _ Fennec Shand? You're supposed to be dead."

She sets the Pad on the bar, pouring you, Fett, and herself a spotchka, “Aren't we all?" 

That earns her a  _ huff  _ from Boba, who takes the drinks, handing one to you. You accept the flute, but have no plans of drinking it; simply too early in the day for your mind to lose it’s edge. Fett downs the blue liquid in one gulp. _ On brand _ , you think. Fennec sips hers thoughtfully, all the while looking at you with soft eyes.

“When wanted by the ISB it behooves oneself to be dead,” she says with a shrug. 

“It’s just so strange that we’ve never run into each other… I mean, we  _ all _ worked for the Hutts. I feel like I would’ve remembered seeing you around.” 

Fett looks between the two of you, a small smirk resting on his face like he’s awaiting one of you to throw a punch. You've no such plans; simply too taken with the legendary mercenary that  _ has seen me naked, holy shit.  _ Your heart drops like a stone, nausea settling back into your stomach. 

You’d heard stories about Fennec Shand for most of your life; her name whispered like an old ghost story told over a campfire. Yet, you two had lived in the same stratosphere and hadn't ever known it, right under your nose all these years.

“I make myself scarce,” she said, simply.

You change your mind about the drink, taking a generous gulp. It’s all too much. First, the Mand’alor, now Fennec Shand? What’s next, a kriffing Skywalker waltzes through the door?  _ Maker _ , you surely hope not. 

Swirling the blue liquid in your mouth before swallowing, you question, “Why show your face now? Of all the planets in the outer-rim you stayed here, in your boss’ old digs, no less. Why? ISB’s still out there.”

“Why the twenty questions, hotshot?” She’s stepping toward you now, your curiosity irritating her. You hadn’t meant your questions to come out as accusations, but your constant insolence often sent the wrong message. 

_ Stupid girl. _

“No, no- I didn’t mean anything by it. I just…  _ Maker _ , I’ve heard stories about you since I was a kid. Never thought I’d put a face to the name, is all.” 

This earns you a breathy chuckle from Boba, the sound even more sinister unmodulated, “Since you were a kid? How’s that make you feel, Fen?”

“Oh-” she shoves him with her shoulder, playfully, “-shut up, old man. You know  _ I can _ still beat the shit out of you. If you want. Just ask.” You take another swig from your flute, the liquid pooling warm in your stomach; any anxiety you’ve been feeling tamped down by the strong drink. Whatever brand Shand kept, it isn’t cheap. The taste is full-bodied and fruity, unlike the potent swill Jabba had served, once upon a time. Shit, those days seemed like a lifetime ago.

“S'why I keep you around,” Fett responds, accepting a second drink from her before downing it like the previous flute. You notice the tiniest of sparks between them, not something born of passion but complete understanding of the other. As your drink is finished, another one is shoved into your hand by Fett; a sheepish smile crawling up your face as you hand the glass back.

"I shouldn’t. It’s so early."

Fett nods, “Suit yourself,” he grumbles, before downing the blue liquid like it’s a shot, and not a full five ounces.

He hands the glass to Fennec before slipping the helmet back on; an action which causes a small puff of air to escape your lips,  _ disappointment _ at the loss of his soft gaze. Eyes that crease  _ just so _ at the corners, now covered by the hunter green beskar once more.  _ No, no that wasn't long enough, I want more time!  _ You desperately think of screaming, you  _ need _ more time. What had his ears looked like? What about his lips? Every detail of his face slips away from your mind, leaving in it's wake only the beskar'gam.  _ Let me see. Please. _

_ Osik! Stop it _ . 

"Actually, I will take that second drink. Thanks," you watch Fennec pour, almost to the top, handing it to Fett, who hands it to you. The blue liquid spills over your lips as you gulp it down, feverish, like water quenching the thirst of a dying man. 

Fett sits on the throne, legs spread; looking as if the galaxy simply birthed him to be here. To rule here. Maybe it did. 

His entire visor turns to you, "How's your head, princess?" 

"Um-" you scratch at the spot where the Mand'alor had stuck you with the needle, "It feels like I'm living in a haze, but other than that? I'm alright." A little drunk, but,  _ alright  _ nonetheless.

He  _ hmm's _ and leans back, legs spreading even further. With two gloved fingers he gestures you to come sit at his feet. You obey- stepping up the dais and tentatively plopping before him; legs crossed. You look down, fiddling with the hem of your tunic, instead of gazing into his cod-piece; easier to think clearly when his dick isn’t staring you straight in the face. "The Mand'alor told me what you did to him. To his beskar. To  _ yourself _ ." 

You don't look up at him. You  _ can't _ . The upset in his voice is palpable, sticky with disappointment that rolls off him in waves. So thick you can feel it coating you in shame.

"You've grown reckless, and for what?"

“I’ve always been reckless,” you snip.

“You can’t lie to me, girl. I’ve cracked open that head and seen what’s inside”

You look up at him, tears shimmering at the corner of your eyes, “I’m not. I’m not lying.” 

_ Liar. _

Maybe this was a mistake. Coming here.  **_Fucking him_ ** . Letting him spread you out on a platter, freshly cut meat displayed before half of Tatooine. And,  _ fuck _ , it scares you. Just how much you enjoyed it. 

How naïve you’ve been, to think something so  _ dull _ as death would change Boba Fett. 

He says nothing in return, simply turning away from your wet gaze. You fear he’ll toss you aside at the first sign of weakness, so you try your best to blink the tears away.

“If you live such a violent life it's sure to have a violent end. Don't you think, little one?” Fett turns back to you, voice barely audible.

“I..” You simply couldn’t answer him in absolutes; not yet. “ _ I don’t know _ , Fett.”

In spite of the beskar’gam visor, you feel his eyes cut your skin like a knife through melted butter. You know what he wants you to say; that you’re no longer vulnerable to the likes of yourself. Of your reckless tendencies. 

He wants you to say that you won’t end up like him, somewhere down the line, when you’re his age. Looking for your own  _ violent end _ in the eyes of everyone around you. He wants you to say that, but you can’t. Because you honestly don’t know. 

“Stand up.” He orders, abruptly. You’re on your feet, immediately, head tilted down at your boots, pinky toe still wiggling up at you from the ever-growing hole. Fett’s gloved hand cuts your line of vision, fingers heavy around the weight of a blaster “Take this. Figure out what you _ really  _ want _. _ ” He growls. Before you even let out another breath, his voice is echoing off the walls, 

“Mand’alor!  _ Tsikala _ !”

Your head whips around to the stairwell that leads outside. The sound of shuffling footsteps meets your ears; your stomach dropping as you see the owners of said footsteps coming through the archway. One chromatic Mand’alor, and  _ fuck fuck fuck!  _ one spindly Twi’lek you’d picked up outside the cantina in Mos Eisley. You’d been sure he was good as dead the moment he laid a hand on Boba Fett’s things. You’d thought the same about yourself, yet...Was Fett about to bend this poor Twi’lek over the throne and fuck him into oblivion? As a  _ mercy _ ? The very thought makes you feel queasy;  _ empathy  _ crawling up your spine to settle in your ever sinking heart. 

The Twi’lek’s hands are bound in the same magnetic cuffs the Mand’alor had used on you, blood running down his face from an apparent blow to the head. 

“Fett. Don’t.” Your voice cuts through your teeth, sharp and unfriendly;  _ pissed _ , actually. 

The Twi'lek let's out an unnerving laugh as his eyes land on Boba Fett, sure of what's about to unfold. 

The Mand'alor throws another bounty puck to Fett, who catches it again with ease. Déjà vu rocks your body, mixing with the high proof spotchka, making your limbs rubbery; the blaster seems impossibly heavier in your hand. 

The Mand'alor eases the Twi'lek to his knees before the dais where you, and Fett, both stand. His head is bowed, eyes darting back and forth, like he's committing the beige floor to memory.

"You have a name?" Asks Fett after minutes of letting the Twi'lek shiver in a cold sweat.  _ Maker  _ he's taken your words to heart and  _ smoked  _ a good amount of Boba Fett's spice. 

"C-Corsch'Zecra," comes the Twi'lek's voice, small and breathy. He looks up at the two of you, a large smile plasters on his face when his eyes connect with yours.

" _ Fuck _ ," comes from your lips. This is  _ your fault,  _ and it's like someone finally flipped the  _ guilt _ switch in your brain that's been off since the day you were born. You  _ cared _ what Boba Fett was going to do to this Twi'lek. You cared that he was going to  _ make him suffer _ . It shouldn't have bothered you. It wouldn't have, you think, months ago, had someone asked if you cared about anyone but yourself. You'd say  _ of course not  _ but maybe that wasn't exactly the truth. 

"Corsch Zecra," Boba echoes him, stepping back and sitting once more in his throne. You wonder how  _ you _ must look; set beside him like his own hired gun. 

" _ You _ ," accuses Corsch "-you work for  _ him _ ? You… you  _ tricked _ me." 

"She didn't trick you. She's not that smart." Fett answers before you can even breath. You should take offense, but you don't. At this moment you most definitely don't  _ feel _ smart. 

He continues, "She's your  _ punishment _ ." You turn to face him then, but his helmet refuses you a glance, instead gazing straight at Zecra; who's lithe form is going a mile a minute despite being stationary.

"What?" You hiss, but he still doesn't look at you. "I'm  _ what _ ?" Are you really  _ his  _ punishment? Or is it the other way around? "What about last night? I thought-"

Fett finally grants you his attention, "If you thought that was  _ punishment _ then I've some bad news for you, girl." With his helmet he gestures to your hand, "Take that blaster I gave you, and put a hole straight through this little Twi'lek's heart. That's  _ real _ punishment." 

Your hands are shaking violently, the cold metal now burning your palm, as if you're clenching hot coal. What's to say you don't put a hole through Boba Fett's heart?  _ Beskar'gam,  _ right. You're surrounded. Unnumbered. Outgunned.  _ Fucked _ , honestly. 

You only have one option left. 

"Fett. Please. This isn't-"

"This isn't  _ what _ , little one? What you'd had in mind? You don't get to make that choice. I could have had the Mand'alor bring you in dead, but I didn't. You owe me a debt. Now  _ pay it _ ." 

You turn back to Corsch, who's drenched in sweat, whimpering softly to the ground. Teeth bite into your lip, drawing fresh blood that drips down your chin. "I can't- please. Don't make me do this, please,  _ daddy. _ " You let the last word roll off your tongue with a groan. 

Corsch brings his head up, looking you in the eyes, " **_Daddy_ ** _?"  _ You hope he'd smoked enough Spice to dull whatever was about to happen next. 

Fett stands, the cold muzzle of his gun resting on your cheek, suddenly, "You're a good girl, aren't you, princess?" Tears are slipping down your cheek as you nod your head; his vocoder crackling next to your ear, "A good girl does what  _ daddy _ asks of her."

You close your eyes, fully preparing to embrace what's coming, leaning slightly back into him for support. The blaster shakes almost uncontrollably in your hand as you lift it, Corsch'Zecra's sobs growing louder with every twitch of your body. Seconds feel like hours as they tick by, alcohol induced sweats cling to your flesh in a sticky second skin, blood from your mouth drying on your face and neck in one perfect trickle. You're a trembling, drunken mess and, fuck _ , you can't do it.  _ You lower the blaster, defeated by yourself. You and your fucking  _ empathy _ . 

“I can’t do it, daddy…”  _ I’m sorry... _

Fett pulls away, angrily tossing you off the dais where you collide with Corsche in a pile of limbs and lekku. Frantically untangling yourself, you use your body to shield the green Twi'lek who gladly accepts the protection, cowering behind you. A futile attempt, you know, as simple flesh cannot protect against the Mandalorian. 

Fett falls back into the throne before gesturing to Fennec, who brings him the entire decanter of spotchka. Tilting his helmet back  _ just enough _ with the muzzle of his blaster to drain the blue liquid to its final remains. 

"You're free to go," he states, simply, before tossing the decanter back to Fennec. You aren’t sure who he’s speaking to, or if he’s addressing the both of you; but Zecra doesn’t wait around to find out. He’s making for the stairs before you can even offer him a last glance, the Mand’alor’s beskar eyes watching the Twi’lek run out wearing his best pair of binders. He shrugs his shoulders. 

You move to get up; thinking of making a break for the stairwell. But, where the fuck could you go where Boba Fett couldn’t hunt you? 

“Stay there, girl. On the floor.” _Where you belong_ is implied but goes unsaid. You plop back down on your rear, causing Fett to tilt his head slightly, “I like you better on your knees.” Your nostrils flare in anger, but ultimately you obey; the hard ground rubbing harshly through your leggings. Knees certain to scrape. You look over to the Mand’alor, who’s once again taken his home against the back wall, arms crossed and ankles hooked. You’re angry with him though he’s done nothing wrong, simply hunting a bounty like you, yourself, have done many times before.

“You lack cruelty,” comes through Fett’s modulator; an absolute. A truth. 

You reply without looking at him, “I killed your Devaronian in cold blood. You want me to tell you want his brains smelled like when his head exploded? What about the popping noise it made?” You hook a finger in your wet cheek, making a snapping noise as it dislodges.  **_Pop_ ** _!  _ Spit sprays from your mouth, laughing nervously as it drips down your chin. Boba doesn’t flinch, form so utterly relaxed in the throne it’s hard to imagine he’s even alive under all that metal. You wouldn’t believe it had you not seen it for yourself. 

“ _ My Devaronian _ was recently outed as a Twi’lek slaver… But you already knew that.” Fresh tears are springing to your eyes, now, rolling down your face. You hate him, you think, more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your life.

So you say it, “I  _ hate  _ you.” Your voice cracks, making you sound like Fett's ungrateful child, instead of whatever it is that you are to him. 

He’s silent until he’s not, “There she goes again. Thinking she can lie to me.”

“I’m not  _ fucking _ -”

“Easy there, little one.” You're quiet, staring daggers into the hunter green beskar’gam, silently cursing him in every language you know. His voice comes from low in his chest as he speaks once more, “You've only ever hated yourself.” 

You don’t have it in you any longer to argue.  **_Maker_ ** , he’s right. He’s read you like an open book, without even caring enough to say your actual name. Not even once, always reducing you to  _ princess  _ or  _ little one _ . You’ve been had for the callow little girl you are, thinking she could keep her misplaced altruism a secret.

"Was the Twi'lek in any real danger?" You ask. Fett  _ hmm’s,  _ shaking his head.

"Corsch Zecra smoked enough Spice to tranquilize an adult Wookie. That's punishment enough." 

_ So, no  _ would be the answer, then. 

"How did you know I wouldn't actually do it?" 

“I didn’t.”

You’re still so  _ pissed _ , but feel that hot ire and adrenaline winding down, leaving you to the dregs of exhaustion “You would’ve had me kill him? For what? To teach me a  _ fucking _ lesson?”

“A lesson I doubt you’ll soon forget.”

You look him where you imagine his eyes to be under the besekar’gam, “I  **_hate_ ** you.”

Fett doesn’t respond in words, instead raises a gloved finger and gestures you to  _ come here, now _ . Kriff, you should want to defy him. You should want to run a thousand light years away from this  _ surly motherfucker _ . But, no. You  _ don’t want that _ . Your fucked up heart wants quite the opposite, actually. 

You want to rip that  _ stupid  _ helmet off his head, look into his damn eyes and tell him again how much  **_you really hate him_ ** . 

You’re up the dais in a few steps, crowding into the space between his knees, and he’s  _ letting  _ you.  _ Shit _ . Your hands are on his helmet, lifting it up; exposing his lips, then his nose, all the way until you’re staring into those harsh eyes. Up close his scars are even worse, long removed from fresh burns of the sarlacc, but still not easy to look at.

You honestly didn’t think your fingers would even brush the green metal before Shand was ordered to shoot you dead. The beskar is heavier than you’d expected, but you take care to hold it as though it’s made of glass; despite it’s quite literal indestructibility. A trait of which, you think, the helmet and it’s owner both share. 

You lean down, taking in Fett’s scent; a mix of the arid Tatooine air, ever present Tibanna with added top-shelf spotchka. Your words slur in a drunken string, “I  _ said  _ I  _ hate  _ you.” The alcohol now fully settles in your bones. With the threat of immediate danger subsiding, your guard slips once again. 

His tone is clipped and raspy in it’s response, “Say it again.” Without the modulator it’s easier to pick up the arousal on his breath.  _ Of course. _ Scaring you,  _ angering _ you,  _ fucking with your head _ ? It all gets him hard. This must be one big, sick, game to him, a game in which he holds all the cards. 

“I  **_fucking hate_ ** you, Boba Fett.”

His lips pull up in the slightest of smirks and the thought of something painful befalling you worms it’s way into your belly; such a familiar heat pooled right above your cunt. Seeing his face now, as this dangerous look cements itself in his skin, makes him all the more terrifying. You moan in spite of yourself; constitution weak as he grabs you abruptly between your thighs. Two fingers rubbing the fabric of your leggings against your clit, pushing _ slightly _ inside you, cunt already dripping from his cruelty alone.  _ Shit _ , it’s so fucked up.  _ You _ like that  _ he _ likes hurting you. A hiss escapes your mouth. 

You’re  _ this close _ to letting your lips press into his; but something about the way Fett fucks tells you he isn’t the kissing type. You press your luck, anyway. 

You always were an impulsive girl.

_ Maker _ , he tastes good. Like spotchka. Like life on Tatooine. Like all the nightmares you’ve ever had of him crawling up from the Pit of Carkoon, bloody and half-digested and  _ alive _ . He tastes so  _ fucking good _ that stars explode behind your eyes as you mash your lips into his. It's the most painful kiss of your life, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip, causing blood to bloom in your mouth; a maroon plush on your tongue. Boba grunts, hooking his fingers up until they reach almost all the way inside you through the leggings; the sensation strange but not unpleasant. 

His other hand comes up roughly grabbing your chin, smearing the blood over your lips with his own mouth, a long, low moan erupts from your chest. He pulls back, slightly, and you whine at the loss. 

Fett’s mouth smeared with his own blood is enough to make you cum from just how  _ fucked up  _ it all is. 

Drunken eyes adjust, just in time to see his hand wind up, a sharp  _ smack  _ echoing through the room as Fett’s gloved palm connects with your face; the sheer force that of a blunt instrument. You drop the helmet in his lap, grasping your throbbing cheek which has become hot to the touch. His other hand then leaves your cunt, taking his helmet and placing it back on his head. 

“You  _ ever  _ do that again and I’ll fucking kill you,” comes his freshly modulated voice. Fett snaps to the Mand’alor as you’re cowering in pain from his gloved hand, “Din,  _ ner yamika _ .  _ Now _ .” The chromatic Mandalorian is behind you in an instant, grabbing your hands and locking them in magnetic binders. 

“Hey! What the-- fuck? Fett! That’s not fair-! Wait.  _ Waitwaitwait _ !” Struggling drunkenly against the Mand’alor proves futile, but you do it anyway as he drags you back up the stairs towards a bedroom; feet landing blows on his beskar shin guards, one particularly hard kick wrenches your exposed pinky toe so hard you’re sure you’ve broken it. Your thrashing is all in vain, however, as one large boot kicks a door in and the Mand’alor is wrestling you onto a thin mattress. The bed of this mystery room is outfitted with a metal head and footboard; he affixes your wrists to the former but leaves your legs free to flail wildly. 

Din’s beskar’gam head looks down at you, tilting just slightly, a breathy chuckle escaping the vocoder. “Easy, kid.”

You whine, hips bucking off the bed, “ _ Mand’alor _ -” you groan, “- _ Din-" shit  _ that spotchka must have been a higher proof than you thought. Your brain is sloshing in your skull, room spinning behind your eyes squeezed shut. 

“What?” Comes the Mand’alor’s flat voice, your shivering reflection distorting in the curve of his helmet.

“I know you want to fuck me, Mand’alor. Fuck me like he did.  _ Breed me _ like he did. It's written all over your  _ face _ .” He doesn't reward you with a chuckle this time; it's easy enough to tell that Din isn’t good at hiding his arousal, even with all that beskar he’s exposed like a quivering nerve. You wish you could see the flush creeping up his neck. Is he biting his lip under there? His arms are crossed and he's shifting his weight to one side. “Something wrong,  _ Mand’alor _ ?”

“Fett doesn’t like me playing with his toys when he’s not around,” explains Din. Though, at this moment, you don’t care. Your cunt is wet and plump and ready to be fucked but this Mand’alor isn’t delivering so you’re drunk  _ and  _ pissed.

“Just tell him it was my idea, I'll take whatever punishment he gives," you plead, but you honestly don't think you  _ could  _ take more punishment.  _ Maker _ , it must have been the rush of certain death mixed with alcohol that’s got you so worked up. Or, maybe it was-

“Slap me.” Comes out of your mouth before you have a chance to rethink it. Your cheek still throbbing from where Fett’s hand had laid a blow. Din’s arms drop to his side, back straightening. 

“ _ What _ ?” 

“She said she wants you to slap her,” Fett’s voice comes from the doorway, making Din turn full bodied to face him. “I wouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is struck dumb by the sheer circumstances he’s found himself in not once but twice; caught between you and Boba Fett. An unstoppable force. An immovable object. He turns back to you, looking down at your wriggling body.

“I- I’m not sure.”

“What-” Boba steps in the room, shutting the door, and taking a seat in a plush chair opposite the bed, "-need me to show you how?”

Din’s voice seems small in comparison to the other man's, “It'll hurt.” 

Boba actually laughs, a full bellied _heh_ at his words, “That’s _exactly_ what she wants, isn't it, little one?” He leans back in the chair, removing the green cod-piece from his hips and letting it drop to the floor; pressing the heel of his palm against his cock. He groans. 

“You’re sure?” Din looks back to you, voice a husk as it comes through the modulator. Your bottom lip tastes like Fett’s blood as you bite it, watching your beskar reflection nod desperately. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, yes, please, Din.  _ Please _ .” 

“Turn her over,” Boba pipes up, still stroking himself through his pants, “-spank her ass until she’s  _ screaming _ .” Din wastes no time flipping you, your still bound wrists wrenching uncomfortably. One gloved hand pushes your head into the mattress, the other ripping down the paper-thin leggings. 

“ _ Fuck- _ ” Din groans, “-she’s soaked.” You feel his gloved hand rub the flesh of your ass, moving down to tease your cunt; just barely slipping two fingers inside you. Your moans are muffled by the mattress, but Boba's groaning at the sight of Din teasing your entrance is enough for you to spread your legs further. 

“She can take more of you than that,” goads Fett, watching through drunken, hooded eyes as the Mand’alor pumped two fingers in you, slowly. Din’s hand leaves the back of your head, and suddenly there’s a loud  **_smack_ ** filling the room. You’re gasping as he spanks your ass in the same spot.  _ Over and over and over _ until you’re sure you can’t take anymore. He’s added another finger, three gloved digits pulling and pushing the engorged lips of your cunt as he rubs the abused flesh of your bottom. 

“How many was that, princess?” Asks Fett, his dick now out and throbbing in his hand. 

You whine loudly, shaking your head against the bed, “I- I don't know...”

“ _ You don't know?” _ Boba’s voice mocks you, to which Din lets out a chuckle. “Go ahead, little one, ask the Mand’alor for more.” 

Tears are at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill, “ _ M-Mand’alor _ , please.  _ Please… _ ”

Din’s three fingers hook up, stroking against the fluttering walls of your insides. Vaguely, you wonder, if his hand is going to stretch you full like Boba’s had last night. But, you don’t think you’d want anyone else to have that much power over you. You don’t want anyone else’s hands to touch through the skin of your abdomen, except Boba Fett’s. 

“Please what, sweet girl? Tell me what you need,” the Mand’alor’s tone is much different than last night’s. Modulated voice now plush, soft and safe. Unlike the voice of last night’s Din Djarin-  _ bounty hunter _ Din Djarin who’d spoken to you with a mouth full of distaste. 

“ _ More  _ please- spank me,  _ harder _ ,” you gasp as he adds a fourth finger. You’re sure he’d stop if you said  _ no more _ , but Fett beats you to it.

“Fours enough.” He slurs, “She only gets to warm one man’s fist.” Din doesn’t respond verbally, but you can almost feel the unspoken respect the Mand'alor has for Boba Fett and his favorite toy. His hand coils back, connecting with your already raw flesh again- and  _ again and again and again and again _ . 

“How many was that, little one?” Asks Fett, once more. Tears slip down your face openly, now, bottom lip trembling and wet.

“F-five?”

“Good girl,” there’s a dull thud behind you, and Fett’s voice is now unmodulated, “-should I let Din fuck you, princess?” 

Din's fingers leave you all at once, making you gasp from the sudden emptiness. He turns you back over, your swimming eyes stare up into the  **_T_ ** visor, “Yes, yes, please  _ daddy _ . I want him to fuck me.  _ Please _ . Fill me back up." 

Fett hmm’s, “Even after you bit me? Made me bleed? I’m not sure you deserve to take  _ the Mand’alor _ .” You’re about to protest, but a groan that escapes Din’s modulator interrupts you; a familiar bulge in his trousers level with your eyes.

“Fett- please. Let me f-fuck her-  _ please _ ,” implores Din, rubbing the heel of his palm over his clothed dick. This is the hardest he’s ever been in his life, all from spanking your ass raw. 

Boba  _ hmm's,  _ “Look at  _ you _ , almost as needy as her.” 

" _ Fett _ ! _ "  _ Growls the Mand'alor, which earns him only a smile and  _ tsk  _ followed by Boba's deep voice of acquiescence. 

"You're a bit overdressed, don't you think,  _ ad'ika _ ?" 

_Ad'ika_? Does Fett use a pet-name for the kriffing _Mand'alor_? The nature of their dynamic is still a mystery to you. Your sober self has so many questions still, of how they met; where Boba Fett found Din Djarin. But your drunken self, ruled by your _fucking_ _lizard brain,_ couldn't give a shit. Watching this exchange between the two men is making you grow increasingly impatient. 

Even more so when the Mand'alor takes care to undress, as to not expose too much of himself before a girl he still doesn't fully know. But he trusts Fett, as far as you can tell, so maybe this means he trusts you by proxy. Most everything save the helmet comes off, set neatly in a pile on the floor. 

His undergarments are standard issue linen like yours, the only difference is the color; black. He isn't built like Fett, who's put on noticeable weight since you two had worked for the Hutts, but Din's slimmer build doesn't make him any less imposing. His skin is scarred irregularly, raised keloids from various blasters, vibroblades, and  _ kriff  _ is that a fucking bite mark? On the meat of his shoulder is a very distinct, albeit faded scar, of someone or  _ something's _ fanged smile. 

He catches you staring, "Disagreement with an ex," he explains, voice a bit wry. 

"Doesn't look like a disagreement from where I'm sitting," Fett comments, making Din scratch the back of his neck; he  _ must  _ be blushing, now. You'd give your life to see it. 

Your voice is hesitant as you ask him, "Do I get to see your face?" 

"No-" Fett interjects "-the helmet stays on, princess." Again, your sober mind slugs awake with questions; but your ever present lizard brain drowns it out with waves of insolence and desire.

"Don't need to see your face to know you're a mess under there,  _ Mand'alor _ ." You tease, wondering how far you could push  _ this  _ man until he broke you completely, like Fett had. Read you for the fucked up book you were, like Fett had. "Blushing, I bet. Maybe biting your lip? Biting until it bleeds? Or d'you only let your  _ ex's _ do that?"

Din's beskar'gam helmet is over you quickly, your shiny eyes reflecting mere inches away. Body heavy as he lays almost all his weight on you, knee between your thighs. "Do you ever shut up?" Din's hand covers your mouth, earning him a furrowed brow and wet palm as you stick your tongue out, licking the calloused skin. A slight shiver runs through his body. "Fett?" The Mand'alor peers slightly over his shoulder at the older man, whose gaze is awash with need. 

"Hmm?"

"Shut your girl up before I gag her," he growls.

“Bring her here, I'll gag her myself," Boba waves his left hand, the other still stroking his cock; pre-cum dripping down the shaft. Din grabs your wrists, dislodging them from the headboard, and releases them from the binds. Your leggings are torn away, but the Mand’alor takes care not to rip them, unlike his counterpart. 

“Crawl,” Din demands, to which you obey, mindlessly. Hands and knees towards Fett, who’s visage appears even larger from this angle. 

“Fuck-” Boba groans, rubbing a thick thumb over the tip of his cock; you can see how wet and angry it looks in the full morning light, “-what should I stuff in that pretty mouth of yours, little one?” You reach out for his leg, but he pulls away with a  _ tsk _ \- a warning. 

_ Don’t touch _ ,  _ silly girl _ . 

He leans down and grabs your chin, both your mouths now dried with his own blood; and it must be his drunken state that lets him wear such a smile, mouth twisted up at one side, showing his teeth just slightly.  _ Kriff,  _ he's scary. But, under his gaze, your entire body hums in sweet agony.

“Your cock- I want your-”

“My cock? You want to suck daddy’s cock, princess?” You nod, frantically, and Fett’s smirk deepens; eyes locked on your bloodied lips, “That’s too bad- because you don't deserve my cock today. Din, give me your briefs,” Boba doesn’t look away from your plush mouth as the Mand’alor moves behind you, wriggling from his undergarments, hissing as the air hits his own need. He throws them to Fett who catches the linen without a glance; you inhale sharply.

“Daddy, please-'' but his smile only stretches, encompassing his whole face as he harshly shoves Din’s briefs in your mouth. You immediately gag at the intrusion, tongue shoved slightly back, making room for almost the entire garment. The smell isn’t unpleasant. Heady, though not potent enough for you to spit them out. Your eyes slip closed, moan vibrating through your body. 

“Fuck-” Din groans behind you, two fingers coming up and rubbing your clit, “that's hot.” Your back arches as the Mand’alor easily slips three fingers into your aching cunt. Boba leans back in the chair, one hand still holding your chin, the other stroking himself. 

The plush chair is large, clearly made to be sat in by someone of substance, and through the thick haze of desire, you wonder what unspeakable horrors took place in this seat; under Jabba's rule. 

What horrors were about to take place right now? Under Boba Fett's? 

Boba Fett who's looking down at you through heavy eyes, large frame fluttering under his own touch. He’s thinking about painting your face with his cum, gluing your lips damn near shut so you’ll never mouth off again. It’s as if he beamed the image directly into your brain- pretty face dripping his cum, him parading you around Mos Eisley, wrist’s in the Mand’alor’s favorite binders. A warning to others who may dare tempt fate to cross him. 

“You ready, sweet girl?” Din runs a hand down your back, letting his fingers pause at your hips and knead the flesh there. A groan rumbles from the back of your throat as you nod.  _ Hurry  _ up _ , Mand'alor.  _

Your entire body jerks forward as Din immediately bottoms out. Both men moaning in a rumbling chorus which makes you shudder. Din's, modulated and breathless. Boba's groaning through gritted, clenching teeth- eye's so heavy they're almost closed- his fingers holding your head in place as the Mand'alor sets his pace; thrusting slow and deep inside your cunt. Your eyes stray from Fett’s, down to his large dick staring you in the face. For just a moment, not even a second were your eye’s away from his, but this insubordination causes him to squeeze you until your jaw threatens to pop under his touch. 

“Eyes on me while he’s inside you,  _ princess _ ,” he growls  _ princess  _ like it’s a curse. His hand is so large it encircles almost your entire face, both your cheeks caving in from his grip. “You know… I could break your neck without much effort, little one.” And you can see it in his eyes, it’s not  _ really  _ a threat. He’s just stating a fact. An absolute. 

Boba Fett could break your neck and you’d thank him for it. 

And he knows you would.

“Oh, fuck- you feel so good, sweet girl. Nice and tight and _wet-_ fuck you’re so wet. You’re _dripping_.” Din’s voice breaks through your clouded brain- where every day you’re living and dying by Boba Fett’s hand- and brings you back to the real world. The real world where his cock is hitting **_that spot_** so deep within you it’s causing your legs to cramp with pleasure. You muffle a whine around his briefs, fresh tears rolling over dried one’s on your cheeks as the Mand’alor starts fucking your cunt so hard your face is mashed into Fett’s armored shin.

Din keeps hammering into you, all the while Boba’s cock is  _ right there,  _ right at  your lips, if only you didn’t have these  _ kriffing _ undergarments stuffed in your mouth. You can see it, in the way he looks at you, he knows how bad you want him in your mouth. He knows how much you  _ fucking hate him _ ; your eyes scream it. 

But his scream it back. 

Din’s hands are at your hips, touch absurdly gentle, cradling the flesh like  you’re breakable. What gives him away is his pace, erratic and messy, unlike his composed metal visage. The tell tale  _ slap slap slap  _ fills the room, wetness spilling from your cunt and dripping down your thighs as he pulls halfway out before plunging right back in. Boba’s eyes eventually abandon your gaze, drunkenly wandering down your body to where you and the Mand’alor connect at the hips. 

“He looks good inside you, princess. Looks like he belongs there,” Boba is  mumbling, hand on his cock going faster. You think he’s close. You think he’s going to paint your face with his cum. Glue that insolent mouth shut forever. You rock your hips back into Din’s, a familiar heat unfurling in your lower belly as he continuously hits that spot.  **_That spot_ ** so deep you’re sure if he goes any further he’ll hit the back of your damn  _ throat _ . That very thought is enough to push your cramping body off the edge; tense muscles snapping like a rubber band as sticky wetness drips from your cunt. Your mouth -still stuffed full- presses into Boba’s beskar’gam as Din fucks you dumb. 

“ _ Fuck- fuck _ , ugh, c-can I cum inside her?” Asks the Mand’alor to Fett, who looks  back down to you and waits until you nod, still drunk on spotchka and cum.

“Go ahead. She’s yours to breed,  _ Mand’alor _ ,” Boba orders, to which Din’s hips  stutter in response, before thrusting twice more. He groans, stilling inside you as you feel his warmth filling up your belly; hand moving to your abdomen to feel him there. 

“ _ Fuck-”  _ he moans, cold helmet pressed against your back as he spills even more  inside you. A few ragged breaths come through the modulator before he slips out, an action to which you groan. Without warning, his hand is over yours on your belly, pressing down. Touch firm but still gentle, causing you to moan as his cum begins dripping down your thighs. He presses harder,  _ and harder _ and more of his cum is flowing out of you. Maker, there’s just so much.  _ So much _ . You’d never known anyone that could come in such an absurd quantity. Never known anyone who could fill your belly up as much as him and Fett.

“Oh, sweet girl,  _ look at you _ -” Din’s fingers trail up your thigh, gathering the mix of  you and him on his fingers, before craning forward and yanking the briefs from your mouth, hooking his cum coated hand between your lips. “Clean up your mess.” You greedily suck at the Mand’alor’s fingers, still staring Fett in the eyes as you do. 

“Shit-” Boba strokes  _ up down _ once more before you feel his cum land on your  cheeks, your lips(still stretched around Din), your tongue, your eyes- that of which quickly become stuck shut as you close them. “C’mere, little one.” Boba’s growling, lifting you up, away from Din’s grasp, before smashing his lips into yours. Smearing both your faces with his own release.  _ Maker _ . 

He’s disgusting. 

He’s  _ perfect _ . 

“Let’s get her cleaned up.” Din’s already making to reassemble his beskar’gam.  Helmet tilted down, drowning in the gaze of both you and Fett; he slides his gloves on. 

Boba hums, large hand cradling your face as he holds your body close to his  own. Pressing his forehead against yours in a gesture that’s strangely tender, but not unwelcome, murmuring a foreign word- “Cyar’ika." You think it must be Mando’a, a language so sparsely spoken, up until yesterday, you’d only heard a few words of it. 

Though your eyes are still tacky with Fett's cum, you think you're as careless and  boneless in his grasp as you've ever been. His lap is where you belong. Be it here, in this room, in the early hours of the morning; or on the throne, no light in the sky, a dozen wandering eyes hoping to glimpse you through the plutonian night.

Your voice is worn thin and dry as it comes from your throat to whisper-

“ _ I hate you, Boba Fett _ .” 

“Liar.”

Yeah, he’s right.

_ You are a liar _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr: pala-din-djarin
> 
> I hope yall enjoyed!


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